Spawn of the Spawn
by Late to the Party
Summary: Everything draws to a close as the last foe is slain, but there are still a few loose ends to tie up before the prize is claimed. AU. (Just because).


**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the names, characters, setting contained within. Bioware/Black Isle/Interplay does.**

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Spawn of the Spawn

Amelyssan lay dead at his feet. Her hand reached up, her fingers clawing, grasping. He didn't need to bring his spear down; her eyes, still wide, had lost their light with her arm's last twitch. The death throes were over. It was finished.

He smiled, a grim, cold smile. He took his first step; his ascent was here.

The Solar appeared.

He expected to hear how the contest was over, how the gods had decreed his victory. Only the ceremony remained now. He had overcome all who challenged his claim. He was ready to thrust his spear down, sever Amelyssan's head and hold it aloft for all to see, to make her skull the end of his throne's right arm. A skull he would tap, as he leaned back. He had fought for this, he had claimed his birthright. The pocket plane had shown _thousands_ of the slain, although, if he was honest, he really had killed only a dozen or so personally. He had even driven off the first gibberling he and Imoen had encountered so long ago.

He glanced at her and offered her a tight smile as she beamed at him, urging him on. Maybe taking Amelyssan's skull was going too far, but the realms needed to know what happened to those who orchestrated the mass slaughter of an entire city. Saradush hadn't been his city, but he had walked its streets; he had seen the children there, the women, all those beautiful women, the old and infirm, those men who didn't know how to wield a spear, and he had seen the aftermath of Yaga-Shura's assault. It didn't bear thinking about. No, Amelyssan did not deserve mercy for her crimes.

He took a breath, composing himself as he waited for the Solar to speak. This moment deserved the gravity it was due. His pounding heart had stilled, and he watched the radiant celestial with dignity, as much dignity as anyone who was battered, bruised, blooded and burned. His armour had taken the worst of it, but his hair, loose and hanging down across a third of his face, was singed. There would be time to sweep it back later, and to wash the dirt, sweat and blood off. In fact, if he didn't get on with it and give the Solar the nod she awaited, Imoen would scream; it would only be a matter of time before she demanded her bath… she smelled just as bad.

"There are no more rivals." He decided to take the initiative. "I seek to claim my prize, this throne."

The Solar didn't speak.

"There _aren't_ any other claimants, are there?" Gripping his spear, his eyes flickered towards Imoen. She shot him an exasperated look and rolled her eyes. He knew that particular expression: he was about to get thumped.

For some reason, the Solar's voice sounded delicate. "I will return you to your pocket plane, godchild."

"Hold on one moment–" Imoen tried to interject, but the Abyssal throne faded from sight. They stood at its great gates, with the statues of the fates entwined around the archway. Jaheira was poised a step behind and to the side of them.

Imoen began to speak his name, but trailed off. Her stare grew more and more incredulous by the second. Jaheira began tapping her foot.

"Uh…" He began, trying not to glance at Sarevok's wraith, which still haunted the plane and had begun to laugh, throwing its head back, it's 'heh' becoming throaty and full blown. He didn't quite draw his boot-toe across the ringed floor, and didn't quite clear his throat. The first chamber had never shown him _this_.

Spectral women appeared, visions of those he had known during his travels, including Melissan and a number of Suldanessellar elves and drow from Ust'Natha. Jaheira's mouth drew into a line. Imoen giggled and glared at the same time, as she picked out the faces she recognised. He knew what she was thinking; she had always known her brother had a way with the ladies, and often excused himself, but she never had imagined so many.

He sighed.

"Did you feel the need to bed every woman between here and Baldur's Gate?" Jaheira's voice was so dry, he remembered his mouth working more easily when choked with the dust of the Amkethran desert.

Imoen was still giggling.

"Not every woman." He couldn't help but make his tone defensive.

Imoen had begun ticking them off on her fingers.

"Just the farm girls, barmaids, ladies and their daughters, harlots and the clerics?"

"Don't forget the Gullykin halflings."

He felt himself glower at this. "Not all of them."

"I suppose you think it's funny?" Jaheira put her hands on her hips. "Just how many women were you with?"

He felt a shrug coming on.

"I knew I should never have let you roam by yourself. Sneaking out of the inns!"

"It wasn't just at the inn."

"And that makes it better?" The half elf's arms folded.

"So… how many?" Imoen inquired of the Solar, eyeing the latest bump.

"Four hundred and fifty seven daughters…"

" _What_?" Jaheira exploded.

"Three hundred and eighty four sons."

"How many triplets?" Imoen squinted.

"This is a nightmare, isn't it? I'm back in the cage, Irenicus isn't defeated, this is just a way of breaking my mind…"

"Heh."

"Sooooo, when do we get to meet them? Oh, that is a _lot_ of birthdays. D'you think we have enough money? Hey… we're not going to have to fight them all, are we? 'Cause, you know, we've had enough and they're just _babies_. Except those ones over there. They're toddlers. And aren't they so cute? I wanna tell them stories about trollops and plugtails and…"

He walked over to the lady fate statue and brought his forehead down against it repeatedly.

"Is that _Skie_?" Jaheira demanded abruptly. "And _Silke_? _Nalia_? And that… that circus elf? Half the city is here! They looks like the girls from Copper Coronet, and that – from Spellhold's island? Bhaal foresaw his own death; what's your excuse?"

He blocked out what she said next. Why hadn't the Solar frozen them in time?

"Hey, bro." Imoen had that tone. That deceptively light one before she suggested some outrageous heist. "That one looks about six. We left Candlekeep three years ago, just after you turned twenty. I don't remember…"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"There's another. Is that when that old puffle-hat visited? I thought I saw you making eyes at–"

"Stop!" He pleaded.

"Hey, I remember her. She was from Nashkel."

"This isn't happening. It can't be happening…"

"Huh. So, like, how much of the essence do they have? Oh. That's sad. I remember her. She was in the faire. Didn't she die? Kobolds the day after we entered the mines? Say, what do you think happens now? I guess we're going to have to ask them if they want daddy's throne. That's gonna be a lot of askin'. Welp, I'm gonna take a bath. Have fun, bro."

"Immy, Jaheira…"

Jaheira fixed him with one of the flattest stares he had ever seen and walked after Imoen towards the pool chamber.

"Solar? …Sarevok?"

There was no answer.

"I'll… I'll give you that spark! …Cespenar? Anybody?"


End file.
